


Namesake

by FortunesArkHero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortunesArkHero/pseuds/FortunesArkHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the five year anniversary of John's death, Sherlock takes his young son to explain to him why he was given the name that he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Namesake

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Lost Without My Blogger, so read that if you haven't already. This takes place five years after the first story.

‘You are my best friend, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘And you are mine, John Hamish Watson.’

‘I told you I would be lost without my blogger. And so I am.’

“John!”

Sherlock awoke with a jolt, a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head. He sat up in the darkness of his room. He swung his legs over the bed and buried his head in his hands. He ran his hands through his sweat-ensconced curls. Sherlock lifted his head; his eyes caught the sight of red glowing numbers to his right. 6:34 a.m. Seeing as how his alarm was going to go off in 26 minutes, he just decided to put on his dressing gown and get ready for the day. As he stood from his bed, he saw John’s medal on his small bedside table. He sadly smiled as he rubbed his fingers over it briefly.

“Morning, John.”

Sherlock was in the sitting room checking the internet (his website, to be precise) for cases. Yes, he still took cases, but didn’t take any that were too dangerous. After all, his life wasn’t the only one he had to think about, anymore. Not since December 6th, 2010. Sherlock sat on the sofa, his hands folded underneath his chin and he began to fiddle with the golden wedding band around his left ring finger. This ring was a reminder of what he lost, and it hurt him, like losing John still had scarred his heart. Sherlock heard a thump come from John’s old bedroom, followed by the opening and closing of the door. A small smile tugged the corner of his lips upward. A little boy of four years old (4 years, 3 months and 4 days old, thank you very much) entered the sitting room of the flat, rubbing his tired eyes.

The boy walked up to Sherlock, snuggling into his side. The boy’s head lolled onto Sherlock’s left shoulder. Obviously, the lad was still sleepy. “I’m hungry. I want pancakes,” he mumbled. Sherlock cradled the boy in his arms for a moment before placing a soft kiss into the child’s hair. “Alright,” he said as he stood up briefly and then placed the child on the sofa. “Pancakes it is, then. I’ll wake you when they’re done.” The young one muttered something of the affirmative. “M’Kay.” Sherlock got halfway to the kitchen when the child added onto his sentence.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Yes, it was true. That small raven haired child was the son of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, born prematurely on December 6th, 2010. The circumstances revolving around his conception and birth were a bit of a shock to both Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock had finished healing up from his near death with Moriarty and was still in a substantial amount of grief over losing John. Molly had comforted him, immediately moving in to keep him company. Molly knew that Sherlock was still grieving, but that hardly meant anything that night. On April 2nd, Sherlock and Molly slept together and agreed that it was foolish of them, surprising Sherlock that he would take advantage of Molly in that way.

When Molly found out she was pregnant, everything changed for him. He was not responsible for his life alone, but that of Molly and their child. Sherlock proposed the day they found out their child was a boy and they were privately married a month later. He wanted to keep his family close, keep them safe. Sherlock was more than enthusiastic trying to pick boy names. Molly liked one of the names he picked, but until the child was born, it was going to be kept a secret. But in early December, Molly had been kidnapped by Moriarty, who saw Molly and the baby being Sherlock’s heart, and he couldn’t have that. Sherlock found Moriarty, and in a struggle, had killed him, but in the process, had lost Molly. She was weak when he found her cradling their son, and she watched as Sherlock held him, smiling and crying.

Sherlock had asked what his name was and Molly said Johnathon Hamish Holmes, named after a friend they both dearly loved and lost. He at least wanted to change the middle name or the first name, hoping that something from the Hooper side would be added, but she assured him that even though this child would be named Johnathon Hamish, everyone knew it would be perfect (he had come to find out that Molly’s deceased father had the middle name ‘John’). And as Sherlock kissed his wife one last time, he waited with her until the ambulance arrived. Molly died while Sherlock held her and their son in his arms. That was the hardest year of Sherlock’s life, losing his best friend and his wife. But he gained a beautiful baby boy who had Molly’s eyes and nose, but had a strong Holmes look.

Johnathon had been sitting at the small table, watching a cartoon on the telly. Patiently, he waited for his father to bring him his plate. Johnathon was such a well-mannered boy, a good boy, and a very bright boy, too. Uncle Mycroft was proud, so was Grandma Hudson. But none were more proud than his daddy, Sherlock. Yes, Johnathon had inherited his father’s intelligence. Sherlock placed the plate in front of his son, who happily began to eat the pancakes. Sherlock just drank some tea. “What are we doing, Daddy?” Johnathon asked after swallowing a bite. “Well, I thought we would go out and have a bit of an adventure. Like the ones I read to you at night.” Johnathon’s eyes lit up. He loved going on adventures with his father. He felt that they brought him and Sherlock closer together. He finished his pancakes and headed off to his room.

Johnathon played in his room, a pirate’s hat on his head and a plastic sword in his hand (obviously a gift from Daddy). He acted like he found the lost treasure of some pillaged city, and pretended he was a rogue pirate playing hero. Sherlock silently crept up to his room and saw him cladded in his pirate gear. It brought a genuine smile to his face. He had figured out that Johnathon only wore his pirate things when Sherlock was sad to cheer him up. To make papa happy again. “Johnathon? Get dressed. Something nice.” The boy nodded, removing his hat and putting both the sword and hat in this toy chest. Sherlock walked into his own room and closed the door behind him. He stripped himself of his dressing gown, shirt and trousers, leaving himself to stand in his boxers.

Sherlock examined himself in his mirror. He was still skinny, but he was built slightly. He touched his left shoulder, fingers brushing over the damaged skin near his collarbone. Like any gunshot wound, his shoulder ached dully from time to time. A reminder that were it not for John, he would probably be dead and that little boy would probably look different and would most likely bear the name ‘Sherlock’. He rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a nice black blazer, his purple shirt, black pants and of course, his black shoes. And what would Sherlock Holmes be without his trench-coat and scarf? When he left his room and found Johnathon sitting on the big chair and kicking his legs back and forth, he smiled at him. Sherlock gathered up his son and left the flat.

The whole cabbie ride, Johnathon kept peering out of the window, occasionally looking at his father and back to the outside world. He tried to be like his father, being very observant of his surroundings. Yes, indeed Sherlock was very proud of his four year old little boy. It was a sunny day, today. Nothing would make it worse. It wasn’t supposed to rain, so Johnathon wouldn’t be able to stain his nice little black suit top, his black shorts, or his black shoes with mud. But even for a bright little boy like himself, Johnathon did not know where he and his dad were heading. He didn’t know where the cabbie was taking them. The cabbie came to a halt. The two Holmes’ got out of the car; Sherlock gave him money, while Johnathon clung to his father. Once the cabbie left, Sherlock and Johnathon made their decent into St. Woolo’s Cemetery.

The crisp March air blew about. The snow had melted, not much of a winter happened in London this time. After a minute of walking, they came to a stop. Sherlock never took anyone here. He was always by himself when he came here. His memory flooded before his eyes. That time exactly 5 years ago. Sherlock pulled out a single yellow carnation. John mentioned it once that yellow carnations were his favorites. A few tears slipped from his eyes and trailed down his cheeks. He inhaled a deep breath as he walked up to the gravestone and placed the flower just under the writing. He traced his thumb over his name. “I’ve brought my boy this time. He’s so eager, such a bright boy. Full of life. In a way, I think he’s got your personality. You’d be proud of him.” He looked at his son over his shoulder and nodded for him to approach.

Sherlock slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out another yellow carnation, and gave it to his son. The boy looked at it perplexed, his cute little brows crinkled with confusion. After receiving an affirmative nod, he placed the flower his father had given him onto the grave, staring curiously at the grave’s markings. “Daddy,” the boy squeaked, softly. “This man has my name.” Sherlock chuckled as he scooped the boy up into his arms and pressed a soft kiss into his dark raven hair. “No, my boy. You have his name. When you were born, your mummy wanted you to be named Johnathon Hamish Holmes after John Hamish Watson, the greatest, bravest and kindest man I ever knew. You are his namesake.” Johnathon continued to examine the gravestone and noticed that his daddy was sad all over again, but he had to know what John meant to him.

“Is Mr. John with Mummy in heaven?” Sherlock bit his bottom lip as a few more tears fell from his eyes. “Yes, he is. You know how Daddy has that scar on his shoulder?” The boy nodded as he looked into his father’s puffy, swollen eyes. “Well, five years ago today, before you were born, I lived with John in the flat. We were solving a case that had, unfortunately, ended with me injured and he gave his life to make sure I lived. It could’ve resulted in me not being here. He saved my life. I am sad that he isn’t here to see you, but I know he’s watching over us and keeping us safe.” Johnathon squirmed out of his father’s embrace. He stood in front of the grave. Sherlock eyed his son, not quite sure what he was going to do.

Johnathon dipped his head towards the gravestone and kissed it, his lips made contact with the cold stone. “Thank you, Mr. John. Daddy misses you. And…” He tried to figure out a way to sound grateful even though he had never met him. “I know you miss him, too. Say ‘hello’ to Mummy for me. And please keep Daddy safe.” Johnathon turned around and looked at Sherlock, a smile wide and warm appeared on his small face. Sherlock smiled back at him, picked his son up and hugged him close. Johnathon kissed his father’s cheek, wrapping his arms around his neck. “He was a hero,” he whispered. Sherlock chuckled as he lifted Johnathon so he could sit on his shoulders. “That he was, my boy. That he was.” Sherlock looked at John’s grave and patted it gently, smiling as he did. “Until the next time, my friend.” He wiped his tears away and walked away with Johnathon.

“Now, how about a scoop of ice cream?” Johnathon gasped lightly. “Chocolate, with sprinkles?” Sherlock laughed again. The innocence his son had truly brought a smile to his face. “Whatever you want, you may have it.” As they continued walking, Sherlock smiled again. He knew John would be proud of him for raising his son as a respectful boy. Sherlock missed him so much. He really was his best friend, he was still lost without his blogger, but all was not gone from him. His life still had a light in it thanks to his son. Everything was alright.

Johnathon and Sherlock got to a small café, one of John’s favorites. The small Holmes boy ordered a chocolate sundae with whipped cream, multicolored sprinkles and a cherry on top, while Sherlock just wanted some Earl Grey tea. He smiled and occasionally chuckled at watching his little boy enjoy the frozen treat. As Sherlock took another sip of his tea, he turned his attention toward the corner seat, John’s old seat. And he froze completely when his sights stopped on someone familiar, yet, not there. He put his cup down on the table. “Hello, John,” he mouthed. ‘John’ gave him a friendly nod with a small smile on his face. “Hello, Sherlock,” ‘John’ spoke back to him. “Fine boy you raised there, Sherlock. Fine boy, indeed.” Sherlock smiled and nodded again.

This was not the first time Sherlock saw a delusion of John. Mostly, he appeared to him when he was under stress, needing some form of guidance or someone just to talk to. But he was always happy to see him. “I know it’s been awhile,” ‘John’ continued. “But it meant a lot that you came today. That you brought him, too. Thanks. And thank you for naming him after me. I think it was really nice of you.” ‘John’ gave him a sad look, knowing that he had to leave his best friend behind once more. He hated doing it the first time. “I’ve got to go now, Sherlock. But it was great to see you again.” 

No, John, please don’t go. Not again.

“I’m never far away. I’m always looking out for you. Always.” And John was gone.

Sherlock looked at his beautiful son, the namesake of his best friend, and then to John’s old seat.

“I know you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not as sad as the first one, but quite sad, still. More like Fluffy angst. I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
